Chaos Theory
by BraveChicken
Summary: Wally is most certainly not dead. But he isn't exactly alive, either. Chaos theory is the field of study in mathematics that studies the behavior of dynamical systems that are highly sensitive to initial conditions—a response popularly referred to as the butterfly effect.
1. Ghost

CHAOS THEORY

* * *

 _Chaos theory is the field of study in mathematics that studies the behavior of dynamical systems that are highly sensitive to initial conditions—a response popularly referred to as the butterfly effect._

* * *

It wasn't what he expected. In fact, he always assumed it would have been a lack of expectation. Science didn't have much in regards to an afterlife but Wally was always a man of science. And science, the way he pessimistically saw it, didn't have enough proof of a divine _anything_. So heaven or hell always _seemed_ nonexistent. And really, it was just that. He expected to not exist.

Looking back on things now, he _wished_ he had stopped existing because being stuck watching his loved ones mourn over his death is as close to hell as he could imagine and by definition, he still existed. Which, he supposed after spending an entire week in thought, could actually be pretty neat in comparison to the whole "not existing" thing. From what he could tell, he just didn't have a body. He had some kind of illusion of a body. And when he touched things there wasn't so much a physical sensation as there was the feeling of going through whatever object it was that he touched- except it was lessened and felt very much like touching each particle that built up said object. And the new molecular lack of sensation would probably bother him more if he wasn't already panicking about being dead on nearly every account. That or this is some time of limbo or whatever his Great Aunt Shermie would claim with her condescendingly loud voice. Because, if for some reason he was here to pay off whatever sins he wracked up as a goddamn _superhero_ , then it shouldn't be long, _right?_ Unless this God hated science as much as science seemed to hate His existence. In that case, Wally just might be stuck here for all eternity. _Shit. I'll never pay that one off._ Not to mention, either way, he's still pretty dead.

Well if the purpose was to prove to the hard-headed speedster that ghosts are real and supernatural things are real and, yeah, maybe science is occasionally biased or based largely on theory and therefore not _always_ the gospel truth and… _yeah, maybe he should have had a more open mind._

But Wally wouldn't be Wally if he didn't have his sarcastic, realistic, and still oddly optimistic personality. So while he contemplated the universe on a bitterly cosmic scale, he did make the most of his ghost-ness. Attending his very own alter ego's funeral might be a debatable act of carpe diem, however.

Wally knows about surreal. For instance, the life of a superhero is surreal. Finding out who you considered to be a boring uncle is actually the Flash was surreal. Watching his dad go to prison and having said Aunt and Uncle adopting him was surreal. Successfully experimenting on himself and becoming a speedster was very surreal.

And attending the funeral for Kid Flash as Wally West was probably the most surreal moment of his after-life. And it sort of made it hard to enjoy the irony when he spent the majority of the time grieving for himself. _And isn't that an odd thing to do?_

It's been said that a funeral isn't for the dead but for those who are left living afterwards. It's a time meant for closure and support. _He figured it was a bad idea._ But what else do you do when you've recently died? Besides, he was always curious to see what might be written on his tombstone. Or what god awful speeches his family might give about him. How many secrets they'd share. To truly see what kind of impact he had because now that he was dead the only sugar coating would be on the thousands of sweets Barry devoured in his grief. And really, it wasn't funny even ironically. Not much is, these days.

So he walked in before anyone else had shown up. He didn't want to see how many tries it took for Iris to apply her waterproof makeup. To see Barry give up entirely on his tie. He didn't care to know the amount of preparation and efforts they made for him because he somehow felt as though he didn't deserve those quiet moments. They were too heavy. He wasn't that strong. That's how he got stuck here in the first place.

Because he was dead. He died. And here he was watching as the world kept turning without him. It was cruel, becoming a shadow of yourself on such an extreme scale. And he couldn't help but wonder if this was par for the course. If perhaps all he had to do to- _oh god_ \- _move on_ would be finding closure. And funerals are pretty great at closure. They're the symbolic epitome of closure, actually.

So he walked- slow and steady- to the park. Glancing down at his shoes and only looking up when he walked through the desserts table. _That's just morbid._ And when he looked up, he saw the stone. And considering it the last thing he could truly claim his right to own these days, he hopped up on top and sat. _Best seat in the house,_ he supposed. They'd be talking to him here anyways and the very least he could do was listen.

Words, it seemed, were all he was left to cherish anymore.

* * *

People handle pain differently.

Similar to allergies, only certain people react violently. And, seeing as death is sort of the over-arching anvil of life, then it would make sense that such a theme is healthy, almost. And, according to such a theory, it would seem normal that one would only react with extreme violence in far rarer instances.

Or so logic would imply. But logic always was a know-it-all.

Either way, the days following Wally's explosive exit knitted into one terrible sweater. Wool and prickly with the thorns of life's rose garden.

There was one fatality that day. But that one fatality was the one metaphorical disk necessary to shift the very foundation of the hero community. Because the fallout of this shift created a quake that even a week after it's initial crash left everyone stumbling from the aftershocks.

It had been a bomb. Unexpected. On an out-of-control semi somehow found it's way into the mix. Really, it was almost a predictably strange way to go. The details are hazy partially due to being viewed through tear streamed eyes. Regardless, it was an attack on the city and on heroes and they didn't win but they didn't lose, either.

Nine-hundred or so people survived. A couple children, some widows, a priest who seemed to have revived his home-town with his near- death experience (or so the news reports implied) and plenty of other normal and average civilians.

Maybe in a few years they could tease about it. Morbid as it sounds, the jokes do lay beneath the rubble. It's Wally's luck, afterall. He had never been early in his entire life except to his death and even that was far too soon. Twenty-one years old and the only fatality. He was good at his job.

He had taken a year off of college. Something about hoping to experience the joys of youth, traveling across America and the world while he assumed everyone else was stuck in interminable meetings full of faded, overly buttery bagels, melted ice water and stale coffee in styrofoam cups.

" _Look, Dick, I just don't know if I can settle anymore."_

" _Settle? Wally, you're the top of your class. You've already got two degrees and you break the sound barrier in your sneakers. Is that really settling?"_

" _That's the thing. I wanna see the world, really see it, you know? More than just visiting. Get to know the locals. I'll still help people. I don't think I could ever stop helping."_

" _What about helping yourself? Do you really want to give up college for that? Wally, if you think that's settling, then there's nothing I can say to stop you anyways. You've always done what you've needed to. But I'm just wondering if maybe you're giving up."_

" _Giving up? On what? A desk job where I can drive myself crazy for the eight hours I'll be stuck there? It'd be like high school for eternity, stuck in a room and only completing paperwork after paperwork and-"_

" _You've wanted that forever, though, Wally. You always said you wanted Barry's job someday. And you'd be working in a lab, anyways, so how would that be static?"_

" _What do you know about what I want?"_

" _Wally, I'm a detective. And I'm smart. Right now, I'm smarter than you because I'm thinking and you aren't. Wally, you're doing this because-"_

" _Don't. Don't do that."_

" _Do what? Bring up how suspicious it is that ever since Artemis left you all you want to do is run away from anything resembling the normal life you dreamed of sharing with her?"_

" _That- isn't what's happening right now."_

" _Really? 'Cuz that's what it sounds like, Wally."_

" _You're a dick."_

" _Have been my whole life, what's your excuse?"_

And that was that.

A few days later, sleek black loafers- long and lean- walked steadily through the halls of the funeral house. Calm. Strong. Able. Spotlessly clean in a way that seemed unusually unbecoming in the stuffy atmosphere. Dick hadn't been to a funeral since he was twelve. There was a distinct clunk that persuaded Dick to turn leftward where there stood two equally clean heels, black as the night the call first rang it's alarming chime.

"You made it."

"How couldn't I? Look, Dick, the last few months-" "You don't have to explain yourself, Artemis."

Wally was surprised more than anything. He'd figured Artemis would avoid the whole funeral. Or, perhaps, that's what he'd hoped. Because then it wouldn't have felt like he'd completely ruined another life. Because now? Now he wondered if maybe Zatanna was right and all Wally needed was to take his time. _Tack that on to the long list of things I'll never experience anymore._

"It seems he never stopped jumping right into things, huh?"

 _Was it me who taught you to jump or were we attracted to each other because of our equally unreasonable instinct to jump in the first place? Or could you predict a Titanic when you saw one?_ Wally had never needed a drink more intensely. His head was spinning and between his grief and the grief of others, Wally wondered if maybe he was dying all over again because everything hurt. Absolutely everything.

"He was always so dumb."

 _"I resent that."_ was his automatic response. A response that went unheard quickly crumbling the attempt at a light-hearted facade. At least he was trying, yeah? Count on his best friend to put him down with just as much harsh honesty in death as he did in life. But it was how he showed love. Wally knew that.

"I should have been there." But as the day continued, Wally stuffed his mouth with words instead of alcohol. " _Thank whatever is making me attend my funeral as a ghost that you weren't. Because first and foremost, because being dead sucks enough without the tension. Based on how you felt about me those last months of life, haunting one another would not only suck but be so awkward even the Ghostbusters would refuse our business. That's probably how poltergeists happen anyhow. A house divided and all that."_

It seemed to be more effective, anyways. And it made him just as much of an ass, so really, it was its equal in nearly every way.

"You couldn't have known. You thought there was time. We all did."

And the pattern repeated. Pairs of people, heroes and friends. Friends that would be more aptly referred to as family. Still. Quiet. Tired. Each one apologizing for a man that only did his job. Who only did what he always wanted to do. Who died the only way he ever figured he would.

"At least is was a bang. He would have haunted me if it wasn't, I swear." Barry chuckled with a hollow weep. _"Guess it wasn't flashy enough, 'cuz here I am. And there you are."_ And it hurt. It probably wouldn't ever stop hurting, but the least they could do was remember him fondly. The way he would have wanted. The way he would if he were still around. And not for the first time, Wally wondered if he was the butt of the biggest joke in the cosmos.

The turnout was terrific in that somber way you see long forgotten friends. Everything was detached.

At least twelve news stations attended, each claiming to be local despite their residence three states west. Being a masked hero implied that you had your secrets and when a good chunk of the city was saved with only one casualty and with the knowledge that it was Kid Flash, a funeral for Wally West would have been rather suspicious. And despite his bold personality, Wally wouldn't have been interested in causing any unnecessary speculation for what remained of his family in his eternal absence. So the funeral was for Kid Flash. In a week or so, Bruce Wayne will secretly fund a smaller more personal headstone for the fiery kid behind the mask. The innocuous 21 year-old who will have no real explanation for his death because it simply wasn't safe to document his identity. It wasn't a national tragedy. It was a personal tragedy. Engine failure and an end of chapter. A page that was ripped from trembling hands and flipped onto its dark side. It wasn't their story to tell. And it didn't take long for cheap black loafers to let that fact be known.

"I'm going to have to ask you to leave." The words were polite but the manner was, in fact, threatening. Each syllable shook with pent-up rage. " _You tell 'em, Roy." Wally drawled tiredly. "You're just as much of a big brother in death as you were in life. Couldn't have asked for a better bouncer. And I don't have to worry about you punching me now. Already feel kicked anyways."_

"We're just covering the story, people are curious you know." The reporter replied in a far too practiced voice. And Wally just watched as Roy stepped forward, his smallish frame suddenly becoming the intimidating stance that is the vestige of Red Arrow.

"My friend died." Angrier, if possible, "A _hero_ died. That was the end of his story. Any more questions should involve exit strategies." From his spot on Roy's left, Wally could see the nervousness that crept into the reporter's face. And out of the corner of Wally's vision he could see the infamous bulge of a vein located on his honorary big brother's forehead as his blood nearly boiled from her attempted _professional opinion_ regarding Wally's previous life.

"I truly am sorry for your loss." she regarded tersely.

"And I'm sorry for your job." With one last glare, the two parted ways, the black loafers squeaking with an unintentional note of finality. " _Thanks, Roy."_ Wally whispered, his voice seemingly unable to produce a more convincing tone. Not that it mattered because Roy didn't hear him. And he wouldn't. So Wally did what he had all day and watched as the red-headed archer paced out of the room, attempting to shield the tears that suddenly threatened to pour from his eyes.

After a couple angst-ridden strides, the loafers found himself re-acquainted with the small heels as a strong, thin arm grabbed hold of his bicep successfully interrupting his hasty escape to whatever dark spot his emotionally constipated friend intended to disappear to. Heated blue eyes met blazing brown ones.

An indignant, 'What?" caused the latter gaze to fall away.

"Why are we even having a viewing? There's nothing to view! His body was burnt in the crash, why couldn't we just knock this out with a simple funeral?"

Brown eyes snapped back to regretful blue, tears pouring from the shattered cavern.

With a mournful sob, Roy pulled Artemis into a tight lock, two dark heels encased by two shining loafers.

Dick, instead walked away sighing as he looked woefully to the tombstone with the last shred of his best friend buried inside. And though the people around them sauntered about, the ex-carnie stood still in the midst of their unwitting crossroads. He felt a familiar sensation of loneliness. And when he looked back up, he could have sworn he saw Wally, using the stone like a couch, feet in the air, arms splayed wide on the ground. And just as Wally had in life, Dick blinked. A hundred times, he blinked and not a single instance changed what he knew couldn't be real. But the amount of double-takes didn't matter because in every one Wally still sat there stupidly kicking his feet as if attending his own funeral was oh so very boring.

So Dick did what he was trained to do. He fainted.


	2. Apparition?

Wally wasn't naive enough to think attending his funeral would have been fun. Enlightening, interesting, weird and all sorts of other strangely felt emotions, sure. He just didn't expect it to wipe whatever counted as energy reserves so quickly.

Is it even possible to have a break from death? _Being dead requires so much unnecessary thought._

And it was in those thoughts that Wally found himself lost. Staring up at the stars that had began to shine as the sun set deeper into the sky and the darkness the world will forever fight against began to engulf the trees and houses and what felt like Wally's very essence.

He wanted to run, but where to? And what would be the point? He doesn't feel the wind anymore. He might as well be the air these days. Invisible. Unnoticed. Filling in the spaces of the world that man hasn't bothered to study in depth yet because there are so many other exciting things. Less depressing things than a dead superhero.

Distraction seemed best, it was morbid enough that he was spending the better half of his funeral stargazing on his grave. He was halfway through singing Billy Joel's, "Only the Good Die Young" taking solace in the idea that maybe the guy had a point- _He did beat him in death, after all-_ when the quiet crunch of grass and dirt alerted him to the presence of a rather disheveled looking Richard Grayson. Though, he supposed, the mask every hero wore tonight seemed to imply they were here as their alter ego- it was Kid Flash's funeral, after all.

Either way, the ghostly ginger had enough respect to right himself so that he sat in front of his tomb, back leaning against the hard rock and legs crossed instead of sprawled upside down like the somber soul he was. He was expecting silence. His best friend was raised by the Bat, afterall. So he prepared himself to spend the next moments staring at the way grass went straight through him without a single bend to hint at his existence. It was ironic how Wally was more haunted by the living than they were by his ghost. It seemed fitting in the same way this entire paradoxical mess seemed to mock the entirety of his previous existence. Scathingly mordant and monstrously so.

But there was something about this silence in particular that caused the deceased to look up despite his previous reserves to avoid seeing anymore tears in the eyes of people he had always figured lacked tear ducts in the first place.

And as if things weren't contradictory enough, when he did look up, it wasn't the profile of a man scrutinizing the typography on his tombstone. Instead, it was the incredulous stare of languished blue eyes that- impossible as it seemed- stared so deeply and did what most eyes do- they saw. But most eyes do not see dead people draped over their tombstones like a drunk second-relative. Because it had been a week and he had tested this. He had tried to be seen for a week and he had finally accepted he wouldn't be seen but now, with hair askew and tie crooked and skin paler than normal was his best friend who without a doubt was seeing him. And Wally couldn't help it. He spun around to check behind him, making sure there wasn't something stranger than the ghost of a recently deceased hero sitting in the vague vicinity of his eyes because even though everything he ever believed in was being tested and changed- even still he couldn't believe that maybe there was a chance of being seen and being heard. Because if even one person could do that then maybe his beliefs weren't entirely invalid. Maybe he could figure out how to fix whatever he was and maybe there was hope after all. And somehow amidst his flailing arms and searching eyes and rapid thought process, Wally still managed to respond in true speedster fashion with a quietly curious, "Do I win at hide and seek these days or what?"

And that last trace of dread seemed to lift away because Dick chuckled. It was a wet, hoarse sob that could hardly be defined as anything short of preliminary relief and it was probably the best thing Wally has heard in a long while because it was directed at him without the cold and somber quality of a person talking to themselves about the dead.

"You, Dick, you. You're-" and he had so much to say because it'd been a week since he said anything that a person actually heard and he settled on the word shouting loudest, "Are you okay? _"_

And that was probably the worst thing to ask because the answer was obvious. He had so many other questions, too, so how is that he managed to ask the one no one really ever asks and no one really ever answers?

And while Wally knew it wasn't the right question, he still expected a response. In fact, Wally expected a lot of reactions. Dick crying, however, was not one of them.

"Dick?" _Did I imagine it?_ "You saw me, right? You could see me! What-well, why…"he was at a loss for words because Dick doesn't cry. He punches things and broods and gives off lethal levels of angst but he doesn't cry. Yet, here he stood in front of him with tears streaming down his face crying and frankly, Wally wasn't sure what to do. Sure, the instinct is to provide some comfort- but he can't touch him. And he can't get him a beer. And words, it seems, are the only possibility but they're jumbled and strained and he doesn't trust himself, so he just stands up. Then he thinks better of staring at his friend and sits back down on top of his tombstone instead of beside it this time.

And it's amidst those stifled sobs that an uncharacteristically soft voice just talks. Because if there was anything he could ever do, it was talk.

With the distinct rumble of a throat being cleared, Wally did just that. "Uh, hey. Um. So this is weird, right? That was a dumb question. Yeah, anyways, I debated how terrible it is or isn't to sit on your own tomb but I figured it had my name on it so it's definitely mine and if anyone can claim it, it's the dead guy it was made for and-"

He was cut off by a muffled, "Stop."

"So you _can_ hear me?" Wally responded, his voice soft with an apologetic hint that laced the words shielded in utter hope.

Of course, the brunette thought it obvious, his 'tsk' being proof of that as he pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes with a furious sigh of, "M'srry" that came out as garbled as the situation they found themselves in. But it didn't stop there. It became a mantra amidst the hiccups of a grieving man.

"M'sorry, Walls. M'srry."

And it took all of Wally's self-control not to join him in his grief because really this entire situation was incredibly messed up.

* * *

 _Author's Note: Hey! So I really wanna know what people think about this fic that I started writing literally out of freaking nowhere. Seriously, guys, I'll update regardless. Like whenever I get the next section written, I'll post it immediately because I always do. I get so excited to share things with you guys. But I have half-formed plans to do some interesting things with this fic (like it won't just be a typical ghost fic…maybe?) And I just really want to see if you guys are interested in it._

 _Even just a solid sentence or two about your reaction to this fic, or your thoughts, or what you like or dislike- found funny or offensive or even just how bad or good or whatever the writing is- anything helps. I haven't gotten a single comment on this fic or the artwork I made for it, so just let me know. (I'm sort of starting feel like Wally right now and that's no fun hah)_

 _Also, said link to my drawing is here: art/Chaos-Theory-581695845 and for tumblr it's here: post/136396040501/so-this-probably-looks-a-bit-morbid-maybe-but_


	3. Mind if I drop by?

The rest of the evening seemed to breeze by in a manner that is often saved for dreams. One instant, Wally was sitting atop his grave attempting to comfort a friend that was now, by definition- being haunted by his dead best friend. And within a blur of a next instant, he was trailing after the poor guy. Winding through friends and family and trying (in vain, it seemed) to avoid ghosting through them because, frankly, he found it creepy. What confused him most, however, was how dream-like this instant was. How people seemed to blur past and how strange that very thought was for him because he was a speedster. Not the fastest and certainly not fast enough. But the world had never gone by too fast for him, only instances. Bullets- on strange occasions where villains were aware that speed was key. Explosions- or their timers, it seems. Dying, as well. But this- this was truly out of his control. He seemed to carry no mass to even fight the draw of the world. The tug that felt as though he was slipping through the very constructs of time and space and he was nowhere and everywhere and everything was so fast. The faces around him no longer looked human. The speed they moved causing the eyes and nose and mouths to blur into a distinct shadow. The sort of shadow he had only seen in his head- in fever dreams and movies. And then the world itself began to fade, the shadowed faces melting into the inky background. And he was falling.

The sensation itself was sudden and raw. His shout seemed drowned in the quenching whoop of emotion as the ginger _felt_ for the first time in a week. And even if falling was instinctually terrifying, nauseating, and random as hell, he embraced it with the mighty fervor of a man who had no fear for gravity's inherent result. _He was already dead, yeah?_

And just as the ecstasy of the moment began to wear of (and the potential crushing reality set in) suddenly the dark roller coaster he had unintentionally boarded gave a rough jerk that was not quite upwards, downwards, or sideways. He had about seven seconds to prepare as the world blinded him with the light of the living. Seven seconds which Wally used to blink, the action accompanied by a startled and confused scream. A thunk that should have hurt and the feeling of being grounded once more.

The great thing about being dead was that his vision didn't need cleared as much as it would have if he were still alive. In fact, Wally figured he'd be unconscious if this happened to him while he still had a body that sustained injury. Instead, it took a simple shake of the head, his hand instinctively lifting to rub the back of his head, checking for bumps that wouldn't be there anymore and carting through hair he was rather certain hardly moved anymore. And when he did finally decide to look around at where he ended up, the view was blocked by a domino mask and black hair he'd recognize anywhere.

And again, Wally was shocked because he was pretty sure- mask and all- that he was being seen. "You know, if I wanted to win a staring contest, I would have chosen a statue."

And there it was, the infamous smirk his best friend was, well, famous for. And it wasn't really the reaction Wally was expecting from him especially after the initial experience from his funeral. But the relief displayed so obviously on his friend's face was a vague explanation and frankly, Wally will take what he can get at this point. After all, he was expecting fear and heartbreak.

He was just about to attempt standing up when a blue and black gloved hand shot through his shoulder. It didn't hurt. But it did have the unsettling feeling of an organic being intruding upon his own (vague and seemingly invisible) makeup. He could feel the pulse of Nightwing's blood as the veins passed through whatever shadow was left of the speedster's existence. The strangely tense static of oxygen and skin and the rough yet hollow pull of his bone. In fact, Wally could practically taste the calcium and carbonate collagen.

Despite his deep desire for stigma in his otherwise lofty existence, the unnatural nature created an unimaginable overload of touch. With a graceless flailing of his very being, Wally shot up and away from the hand with an instinctual shriek of, "Woah, good Night!"

Dick, for his part, retreated almost immediately. While the touch was diminished for the sensory capable adult, it was still a foreign feeling. Frankly, he didn't know what he expected. And he was almost certain it was overly intrusive but it _was_ Wally and he'd known Wally most of his life and there's a level of friendship that sort of allows you the right to poke through your dead-best friend's ghost form. _Wally always loved science, anyways._

He expected it to be cold. Instead, it felt like raw energy. Electricity pulsing and grabbing and _shocking_. Somehow it seemed fitting to consider the speedster he calls his best friend to be entirely made up of raw electrical energy.

Seeing his friend- _dead or otherwise_ \- flee from the touch, however, left a small and hollow pang in his heart.

"Sorry, that was... invasive." He apologized, his voice awkward as he shook his now slightly numb hand. Though seeing Wally's face heat up with embarrassment made the entire ordeal somehow worth it. _Hmm, didn't think ghosts could blush._

They were now facing each other, Wally with an amicable smile as he absently rubbed the offended shoulder. He seemed distracted, his gaze shifting from the sky to the city to the friend that stood scrutinizing his odd existence before him. With a huff of uncertainty, Dick broke the sudden silence, his voice taking on the quietly somber tone he adopted over his years as a hero, "Wally?"

A distracted "hmm?" was his response as the ginger finally made eye contact.

"What the- you just- you realize you just fell from the sky, yeah?" Incredulous and worried.

"Well I knew I fell but I didn't think it was the sky I came from." Wally responded, his voice distant and confused with the slightest trace of awe.

It was so strange. He wasn't opaque like movies and cartoons often assumed. No, he was there. Solid. But a memory. There but not there. A walking paradox, he supposed. And that was suiting. What was strange, however, was how Wally didn't cast a shadow. Granted, it was nighttime, but he there was nothing. No physical proof that he even stood in front of him, eyes gazing past him with a cold brightness. Still the same deep green framed by freckles. But the lights of the city didn't illuminate his iris as they would any other human. Just as there was no shadow there was no light. It was unnatural. He was jolted from his thoughts by the sarcastic voice of the very person he'd been staring at.

"No, it didn't hurt when I fell from heaven. I'd recommend you take a picture but I heard ghosts don't show up in them."

 _On with it, then._

"You disappeared. _Twice_. I saw you and I heard you but then you vanished and- I thought I was crazy. Or stressed. Or drugged. Grieving?" It was almost like old times. Except for the undeniable reality that his friend couldn't possibly be all there. (Though the snarky best friend within commented he never was to begin with.)

"Well for the record, I never meant to leave. _Didn't know I could anyhow."_ he mumbled the last bit. Then with a quick twitch, he continued, "I was trying to talk to you but the world sort of spazzed and then I was falling and now I'm here." And again he paused. Hmm, he tried to make contact and vanished. Something about his touch had Nightwing thinking. His brain whirring with vague laws of science he had never understood as well as Wally had. Theories and probabilities started popping up left and right, bunny-trailing and converging in a distant roar that almost had the acrobat miss the quiet question. "How long since-?"

 _Right. Reality, Grayson. Focus on that._

"It's been a month."

" _Shit_."

They sat in silence for a while after that. Neither one knew how long. But as time passed so did the tension. The horrifically depressing reality, the tangible grip of death and the utter confusion. It didn't disappear. Nothing ever really disappears. A fact that seems to carry an ironic and heavy truth given the situation. But after a while, they knew what needed to be done. And if he couldn't save his best friend in life then he'd sure as hell try to help him in this _afterlife_.

"I'm going back to my apartment. You're timing is impeccable. You always did know when to drop by."

"Har har." Wally retorted. Then he thought about what was said, "Well- wait. I-"

"The landlord said I couldn't have any dogs or cats but it said nothing about ghosts."

"So, you- we, you want me to-"

"I'll walk, you... float? Besides, I have some half-assed theories I wanna test on you. Unless you like being a horror movie reject?"

"Yeah, well, whoever's doing the casting is the real one to blame." He retorted, a happy lilt to his voice knowing he at the very least had someone to complain to. Being dead was starting to make his head hurt. He had no idea what was going on. Ever since he woke up a week, er, over a month ago, he hadn't been certain of much. The only thing he knew to be true was that he didn't exist on the same plane of everything else did. Not anymore. But Dick could see him. So maybe- just maybe- there was reason for hope.

* * *

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